


«3 



3Q 






f^;;cc cTs^c^m 



m «.< 



*•* !l.!(1SS j&2&c&2&c&5£cii-2 



lase 



S c»5.£s5.^*> ££. d^cs> ti?.^^. -!i><i5.35^ 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 



%<€C1Q 



€l)ap. 



m 







B UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 






gl ei : ••: v i ■•mm-s 



■: .♦;.%■ .v .♦;.♦.".'.' ;•:/;•.'. / .-J 



-A. ( ( c , 






<X< 4TT4! 



; c ^ r~c« <$fc 






<src cm" 






cm 






' & (C 






1 1 {t(Cff3r-*£zr ^vv- 



vj*& 



, 












:v^c: 



(CCXc 



THE WAIF. 



THE WAIF 



COLLECTION OF POEMS. 



A Waif, the which by fortune came 
Upon your seas, he claimed as property ; 
And yet nor his, nor his in equity, 
But yours the waif by high prerogative. 

THE FAERIE QUEENE. 




BOSTON: 

WILLIAM D. TICKNOR & CO., 

1846. 



•ftW 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1844, by 

John Owen, 

in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. 



CAMBRIDGE: 

METCALF AND COMPANY, 

PRINTERS TO THE UNIVERSITY. 



CONTENTS. 







PAGE 


Proem .... henry w. Longfellow. 


ix 


The Song of the Forge 


.. ANONYMOUS. 


1 


A Song .... 


THOMAS CAREW. 


6 


Why thus longing ? 


ANONYMOUS. 


9 


The Monks of Old . 


O. P. R. JAMES. 


11 


Hymn to the Flowers 


HORACE SMITH. 


14 


Why are they shut ? 


. HORACE SMITH. 


18 


Afar in the desert 


THOMAS PRINGLE. 


22 


The Camp 


ROBERT BROWNING. 


27 


Song . 


P. B. SHELLEY. 


30 


Autumn 


JOHN MALCOM. 


32 


Lament of the Irish Emigrant . 


MRS. BLACKWOOD. 


34 


He standeth at the door 


. A. C. COXE. 


38 


KULNASATZ, MY REINDEER . 


LAPLAND SONG. 


40 


Sonnet on Autumn . 


ANONYMOUS. 


42 


April 


ANONYMOUS. 


43 


Song 


. SAMUEL DANIEL. 


46 


The Awakening of Endymion . 


ANONYMOUS. 


48 


The Lily of Nithsdale . 


ANONYMOUS. 


53 


To the Mocking-bird . 


ANONYMOUS. 


55 


Church-bells heard at Evening 


ANONYMOUS. 


56 


The Death-bed . . . 




58 



VI 



CONTENTS. 



The Evening Hour . 
Love .... 
Night among the Alps 
Thev are all gone 
To a Lady 
Each in All 



MRS. C. B. WILSON. 

. ANONYMOUS. 

JAMES MONTGOMERY. 

. HENRY VAUGHAN. 

ANONYMOUS. 

R. W. EMERSON. 



The Lover to the Glowworms andrew marvel. 

Hymn of the Church-yard 

Dirge in Autumn 

The Drop of Dew 

Wishes 

To Althea, from Prison 

Death of a Child . 

Human Pride 

To Lucasta 

Where are the dead ? 

A Christmas Hymn . 

No MORE 

To Daffodils . 

To Primroses 

To Blossoms 

The Grasshopper 

Sweet Phosphor, bring the day francis quarles. 

The Bridge of Sighs . . . thomas hood. 

The Antique Sepulchre . . mrs. hemans. 

Et EXALTAVIT HUMILES . WILLIAM HABINGTON. 

Lines to a Withered Leaf . . jones very. 
Song for August . . Harriet martineau. 

The Indian Burying-ground . philip freneau. 



JOHN BETHUNE. 

W. G. CLARK. 

. ANDREW MARVEL. 

RICHARD CRASHAW. 

RICHARD LOVELACE. 

. JOHN PIERPONT. 

. ANDREW MARVEL. 

RICHARD LOVELACE. 

. ANONYMOUS. 

ALFRED DOMMETT. 

MRS. HEMANS. 

ROBERT HERRICK. 

. ROBERT HERRICK. 

ROBERT HERRICK. 

RICHARD LOVELACE. 



60 

62 

65 

69 

71 

73 

76 

78 

81 

84 

87 

91 

93 

97 

101 

103 

108 

111 

114 

116 

118 

120 

123 

126 

132 

136 

139 

141 

143 



PROEM. 



PROEM. 



The day is done, and the darkness 
Falls from the wings of Night, 

As a feather is wafted downward 
From an eagle in his flight. 

I see the lights of the village 

Gleam through the rain and the mist, 
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me, 

That my soul cannot resist ; 

A feeling of sadness and longing, 

That is not akin to pain, 
And resembles sorrow only 

As the mist resembles the rain. 



PROEM. 

Come, read to me some poem, 
Some simple and heartfelt lay, 

That shall soothe this restless feeling, 
And banish the thoughts of day. 

Not from the grand old masters, 
Not from the bards sublime, 

Whose distant footsteps echo 
Through the corridors of time. 

For, like strains of martial music, 
Their mighty thoughts suggest 

Life's endless toil and endeavour ; 
And to-night I long for rest. 

Read from some humbler poet, 

Whose songs gushed from his heart, 

As showers from the clouds of summer, 
Or tears from the eyelids start ; 

Who through long days of labor, 

And nights devoid of ease, 
Still heard in his soul the music 

Of wonderful melodies. 



PBOEM. XI 

Such songs have power to quiet 

The restless pulse of care, 
And come like the benediction 

That follows after prayer. 

Then read from the treasured volume 

The poem of thy choice, 
And lend to the rhyme of the poet 

The beauty of thy voice. 

And the night shall be filled with music, 
And the cares, that infest the day, 

Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, 
And as silently steal away. 

HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. 

Cambridge, December, 1844. 



THE WAIF. 



THE WAIF. 



THE SONG OF THE FORGE. 



Clang, clang ! the massive anvils ring : 
Clang, clang ! a hundred hammers swing ; 
Like the thunder-rattle of a tropic sky ; 
The mighty blows still multiply ; 

Clang, clang ! 
Say, brothers of the dusky brow, 
What are your strong arms forging now ? 
l 



THE WAIF. 

Clang, clang ! — We forge the coulter now, — 

The coulter of the kindly plough ; 

Sweet Mary mother, bless our toil ! 
May its broad furrow still unbind 
To genial rains, to sun and wind, 

The most benignant soil ! 

Clang, clang ! — Our coulter's course shall be 
On many a sweet and sheltered lea, 

By many a streamlet's silver tide, 
Amidst the song of morning birds, 
Amidst the low of sauntering herds, 
Amidst soft breezes which do stray 
Through woodbine hedges and sweet May, 

Along the green hill's side. 

When regal autumn's bounteous hand 
With wide-spread glory clothes the land ; 
When to the valleys, from the brow 

Of each resplendent slope, is rolled 

A ruddy sea of living gold, 
We bless, — we bless the plough. 



THE SONG OF THE FORGE. 

Clang, clang ! — Again, my mates, what glows 
Beneath the hammer's potent blows ? — 
Clink, clank ! — We forge the giant chain, 
Which bears the gallant vessel's strain, 
'Midst stormy winds and adverse tides ; 
Secured by this, the good ship braves 
The rocky roadstead, and the waves 
Which thunder on her sides. 

Anxious no more, the merchant sees 

The mist drive dark before the breeze, 

The storm-cloud on the hill ; 

Calmly he rests, though far away 
In boisterous climes his vessel lay, 

Reliant on our skill. 

Say on what sands these links shall sleep, 
Fathoms beneath the solemn deep ; 
By Afric's pestilential shore, — 
By many an iceberg, lone and hoar, — 
By many a palmy Western isle, 
Basking in spring's perpetual smile, — 
By stormy Labrador. 



THE WAIF. 

Say, shall they feel the vessel reel, 

When to the battery's deadly peal 

The crashing broadside makes reply ? 
Or else, as at the glorious Nile, 
Hold grappling ships, that strive the while 

For death or victory ? 

Hurrah ! — Cling, clang ! — Once more, what glows, 
Dark brothers of the forge, beneath 

The iron tempest of your blows, 
The furnace's red breath ? 

Clang, clang ! — A burning torrent, clear 
And brilliant, of bright sparks, is poured 

Around and up in the dusky air, 
As our hammers forge the sword. 

The sword ! — a name of dread ; yet when 
Upon the freeman's thigh 't is bound, 

While for his altar and his hearth, 

While for the land that gave him birth, 
The war-drums roll, the trumpets sound, 

How sacred is it then ! 



THE SONG OF THE FORGE. 

Whenever for the truth and right 
It flashes in the van of fight, — 
Whether in some wild mountain-pass, 
As that where fell Leonidas, — 
Or on some sterile plain, and stern, 
A Marston or a Bannockburn, — 
Or 'mid fierce crags and bursting rills, 
The Switzer's Alps, gray Tyrol's hills, — 
Or, as when sunk the Armada's pride, 
It gleams above the stormy tide, — 
Still, still, whene'er the battle -word 
Is Liberty, when men do stand 
For justice and their native land, 
Then Heaven bless the sword ! 



A SONG. 



It is not beauty I demand, 

A crystal brow, the moon's despair, 
Nor the snow's daughter, a white hand, 

Nor mermaid's yellow pride of hair. 

Tell me not of your starry eyes, 
Your lips, that seem on roses fed, 

Your breasts, where Cupid tumbling lies, 
Nor sleeps for kissing of his bed, — 

A bloomy pair of vermeil cheeks, 
Like Hebe's in her ruddiest hours, 

A breath that softer music speaks 

Than summer winds a- wooing flowers. 



A SONG. 

These are but gauds ; nay, what are lips ? 

Coral beneath the ocean-stream, 
Whose brink when your adventurer slips, 

Full oft he perisheth on them. 

And what are cheeks, but ensigns oft, 
That wave hot youth to fields of blood ? 

Did Helen's breast, though ne'er so soft, 
Do Greece or Ilium any good ? 

Eyes can with baleful ardor burn, 

Poison can breathe, that erst perfumed ; 

There 's many a white hand holds an urn, 
With lover's hearts to dust consumed. 

For crystal brows, there 's naught within ; 

They are but empty cells for pride ; 
He who the Siren's hair would win 

Is mostly strangled in the tide. 

Give me, instead of beauty's bust, 
A tender heart, a loyal mind, 



THE WAIF. 

Which with temptation I would trust, 
Yet never linked with error find ; — 

One in whose gentle bosom I 

Could pour my secret heart of woes, 
Like the care-burdened honey-fly, 

That hides his murmurs in the rose ; - 

My earthly comforter ! whose love 

So indefeasible might be, 
That, when my spirit won above, 

Hers could not stay, for sympathy. 



WHY THUS LONGING? 



Why thus longing, thus for ever sighing, 
For the far off, unattained, and dim ; 

While the beautiful, all round thee lying, 
Offers up its low, perpetual hymn ? 

Wouldst thou listen to its gentle teaching, 
All thy restless yearnings it would still ; 

Leaf and flower and laden bee are preaching, 
Thine own sphere, though humble, first to fill. 

Poor indeed thou must be, if around thee 
Thou no ray of light and joy canst throw ; 

If no silken cord of love hath bound thee 
To some little world through weal and woe ; 



10 THE WAIF. 

If no dear eyes thy fond love can brighten, — 
No fond voices answer to thine own ; 

If no brother's sorrow thou canst lighten, 
By daily sympathy and gentle tone. 

Not by deeds that win the crowd's applauses, 
Not by works that give thee world-renown, 

Not by martyrdom, or vaunted crosses, 

Canst thou win and wear the immortal crown. 

Daily struggling, though unloved and lonely, 

"Every day a rich reward will give ; 
Thou wilt find, by hearty striving only, 
And truly loving, thou canst truly live. 



11 



THE MONKS OF OLD. 



I envy them, — those monks of old, — 
Their books they read, and their beads they told ; 
To human softness dead and cold, 
And all life's vanity. 

They dwelt like shadows on the earth, 
Free from the penalties of birth, 
Nor let one feeling venture forth 
But Christian charity. 

I envy them ; their cloistered hearts 
Knew not the bitter pang that parts 
Beings that all affection's arts 
Had linked in unity. 



12 THE WAIF. 

The tomb to them was not a place 
To drown the best-loved of their race, 
And blot out each sweet memory's trace 
In dull obscurity : 

To them it was the calmest bed 
That rests the aching human head : 
They looked with envy on the dead, 
And not with agony. 

No bonds they felt, no ties they broke, 
No music of the heart they woke, 
When one brief moment it had spoke, 
To lose it suddenly. 

Peaceful they lived, — peaceful they died ; 
And those that did their fate abide 
Saw brothers wither by their side 
In all tranquillity. 



THE MONKS OF OLD. 13 

They loved not, dreamed not, — for their sphere 
Held not joy's visions ; — but the tear 
Of broken hope, of anxious fear, 
Was not their misery. 

I envy them, — those monks of old ; 
And when their statues I behold, 
Carved in the marble, calm and cold, 
How true an effigy ! 

I wish my heart were as calm and still 
To beams that fleet, and blasts that chill, 
And pangs that pay joy's spendthrift thrill 
With bitter usury. 



14 



HYMN TO THE FLOWERS. 



Day-stars ! that ope your eyes with morn to twinkle 

From rainbow galaxies of earth's creation, 
And dew-drops on her lovely altars sprinkle 
As a libation ! 

Ye matin worshippers ! who, bending lowly 
Before the uprisen sun, God's lidless eye, 
Throw from your chalices a sweet and holy 
Incense on high ! 

Ye bright mosaics ! that with storied beauty 

The floor of Nature's temple tessellate, 
What numerous emblems of instructive duty 
Your forms create ! 



HYMN TO THE FLOWERS. 15 

'Neath cloistered boughs each floral bell that swingeth, 

And tolls its perfume on the passing air, 

Makes Sabbath in the fields, and ever ringeth 

A call to prayer ! 

Not to the domes where crumbling arch and column 

Attest the feebleness of mortal hand ; 
But to that fane most catholic and solemn 
Which God hath planned ! 

To that cathedral, boundless as our wonder 

Whose quenchless lamps the sun and moon supply, 
Its choir the winds and waves, its organ thunder, 
Its dome the sky ! 

There, — as in solitude and shade I wander 

Through the lone aisles, or stretched upon the sod, 
Awed by the silence, reverently ponder 
The ways of God, — 

Your voiceless lips, O flowers, are living preachers, 
Each cup a pulpit, and each leaf a book, 



16 THE WAIF. 

Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers 
From loneliest nook ! 

Floral apostles ! that in dewy splendor 

Weep without sin and blush without a crime, 
O, may I deeply learn and ne'er surrender 
Your love sublime ! 

" Thou wast not, Solomon, in all thy glory, 

Arrayed," the lilies cry, " in robes like ours " : 
How vain your grandeur ! O, how transitory 
Are human flowers ! 

In the sweet-scented pictures, heavenly Artist ! 

With which thou paintest Nature's wide-spread hall, 
What a delightful lesson thou impartest 
Of love to all ! 

Not useless are ye, flowers ! though made for pleasure, 

Blooming o'er fields and wave by day and night, 
From every source your sanction bids me treasure 
Harmless delight. 



HYMN TO THE FLOWERS. 17 

Ephemeral sages ! what instructers hoary 

For such a world of thought could furnish scope ? 
Each fading calyx a memento mori. 
Yet fount of hope ! 

Posthumous glories ! angel-like collection ! 

Upraised from seed or bulb interred in earth, 
Ye are to me a type of resurrection 
And second birth. 

Were I, O God ! in churchless lands remaining, 

Far from all teachers and from all divines, 
My soul would find, in flowers of thy ordaining, 
Priests, sermons, shrines ! 



18 



WHY ARE THEY SHUT? 



Why are our churches shut with jealous care, 
Bolted and barred against our bosom's yearning, 

Save for the few short hours of Sabbath prayer, 
With the bell's tolling statedly returning ? 

Why are they shut ? 

If with diurnal drudgeries o'erwrought, 

Or sick of dissipation's dull vagaries, 
We wish to snatch one little space for thought, 

Or holy respite, in our sanctuaries, 

Why are they shut ? 

What ! shall the church, the house of prayer no more, 
Give tacit notice from its fastened portals, 



WHY ARE THEY SHUT? 19 

That for six days 't is useless to adore, 

Since God will hold no communings with mortals ? 
Why are they shut ? 

Are there no sinners in the churchless week 
Who wish to sanctify a vowed repentance ? 

Are there no hearts bereft which fain would seek 
The only balm for death's unpitying sentence ? 
Why are they shut ? 

Are there no poor, no wronged, no heirs of grief, 
No sick, who, when their strength or courage falters, 

Long for a moment's respite or relief, 

By kneeling at the God of mercy's altars ? 
Why are they shut ? 

Are there no wicked, whom, if tempted in, 

Some qualm of conscience or devout suggestion 

Might suddenly redeem from future sin ? 
O, if there be, how solemn is the question, 
Why are they shut ? 



20 THE WAIF. 

In foreign climes mechanics leave their tasks 

To breathe a passing prayer in their cathedrals ; 
There they have week-day shrines, and no one asks, 
When he would kneel to them, and count his bead- 
rolls, 

Why are they shut ? 

Seeing them enter sad and disconcerted, 

To quit those cheering fanes with looks of glad- 
ness, — 
How often have my thoughts to ours reverted ! 
How oft have I exclaimed, in tones of sadness, 
Why are they shut ? 

For who within a parish church can stroll, 
Wrapt in its week-day stillness and vacation, 

Nor feel that in the very air his soul 

Receives a sweet and hallowing lustration ? 
Why are they shut ? 

The vacant pews, blank aisles, and empty choir, 
All in a deep sepulchral silence shrouded, 



WHY ARE THEY SHUT? 21 

An awe more solemn and intense inspire, 

Than when with Sabbath congregations crowded. 
Why are they shut ? 

The echoes of our footsteps, as we tread 
On hollow graves, are spiritual voices ; 

And, holding mental converse with the dead, 
In holy reveries our soul rejoices. 

Why are they shut ? 

If there be one, — one only, — who might share 
This sanctifying week-day adoration, 

Were but our churches open to his prayer, 
Why, — I demand with earnest iteration, — 
Why are they shut ? 



22 



AFAR IN THE DESERT. 



Afar in the desert I love to ride, 
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side : 
When the sorrows of life the soul o'ercast, 
And, sick of the present, I cling to the past ; 
When the eye is suffused with regretful tears, 
From the fond recollections of former years ; 
And shadows of things that have long since fled 
Flit over the brain, like ghost of the dead : 
Bright visions of glory, that vanished too soon , 
Day-dreams, that departed ere manhood's noon ; 
Attachments, by fate or by falsehood reft ; 
Companions of early days, lost or left ; 
And my native land, whose magical name 
Thrills to the heart like electric flame ; 



AFAR IN THE DESERT. 23 

The home of my childhood ; the haunts of my prime ; 
All the passions and scenes of that rapturous time 
When the feelings were young and the world was 

new, 
Like the fresh bowers of Eden unfolding to view ; 
All, all now forsaken, forgotten, foregone ; 
And I, a lone exile, remembered by none ; 
My high aims abandoned, my good acts undone, 
Aweaiy of all that is under the sun ; — 
With that sadness of heart which no stranger may 

scan, 
I fly to the desert afar from man ! 

Afar in the desert I love to ride, 

With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side : 

When the wild turmoil of this wearisome life, 

With its scenes of oppression, corruption, and strife ; 

The proud man's frown and the base man's fear, 

The scorner's laugh and the sufferer's tear, 

And malice, and meanness, and falsehood, and fojly, 

Dispose me to musing and dark melancholy ; 

When my bosom is full, and my thoughts are high, 

And my soul is sick with the bondman's sigh, — 



24 THE WAIF. 

0, then there is freedom, and joy, and pride, 
Afar in the desert alone to ride ! 
There is rapture to vault on the champing steed, 
And to bound away with the eagle's speed, 
With the death-fraught firelock in my hand, — 
The only law of the desert land ! 

Afar in the desert I love to ride, 

With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side : 

Away, away from the dwellings of men, 

By the wild deer's haunt, by the buffalo's glen ; 

By the valleys remote where the oribi plays, 

Where the gnu, the gazelle, and the hartebeest graze, 

And the kudu and eland unhunted recline 

By the skirts of gray forests o'erhung with wild-vine ; 

Where the elephant browses at peace in his wood, 

And the river-horse gambols unscared in the flood, 

And the mighty rhinoceros wallows at will 

In the fen where the wild ass is drinking his fill. 

Afar in the desert I love to ride, 

With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side : 



AFAR IN THE DESERT. 25 

O'er the brown karroo, where the fleeting cry 
Of the springbok's fawn sounds plaintively, 
And the timorous quagga's shrill- whistling neigh 
Is heard by the fountain at twilight gray ; 
Where the zebra wantonly tosses his mane, 
With wild hoof scouring the desolate plain ; 
And the fleet-footed ostrich over the waste 
Speeds like a horseman who travels in haste, 
Hieing away to the home of her rest, 
Where she and her mate have scooped their nest, 
Far hid from the pitiless plunderer's view 
In the pathless depths of the parched karroo. 

Afar in the desert I love to ride, 

With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side : 

Away, away, in the wilderness vast, 

Where the white man's foot hath never passed, 

And the quivered Coranna or Bechuan 

Hath rarely crossed with his roving clan ; 

A region of emptiness, howling and drear, 

Which man hath abandoned from famine and fear ; 

Which the snake and the lizard inhabit alone, 

With the twilight bat from the yawning stone ; 



26 THE WAIF. 

Where grass, nor herb, nor shrub takes root, 
Save poisonous thorns that pierce the foot ; 
And the bitter melon, for food and drink, 
Is the pilgrim's fare by the salt lake's brink ; 
A region of drought, where no river glides, 
Nor rippling brook with osiered sides ; 
Where sedgy pool, nor bubbling fount, 
Nor tree, nor cloud, nor misty mount, 
Appears to refresh the aching eye ; 
But the barren earth, and the burning sky, 
And the blank horizon, round and round, 
Spread, void of living sight or sound. 

And here, while the night-winds round me sigh, 
And the stars burn bright in the midnight sky, 
As I sit apart by the desert stone, 
Like Elijah at Horeb's cave alone, 
A still small voice comes through the wild, 
Like a father consoling his fretful child, 
Which banishes bitterness, wrath, and fear, 
Saying, — Man is distant, but God is near ! 



27 



THE CAMP. 



You know we French stormed Eatisbon ; - 

A mile or so away, 
On a little mound Napoleon 

Stood, on our storming day ; 
With neck outthrust, you fancy how, 

Legs wide, arms locked behind, 
As if to balance the prone brow 

Oppressive with its mind. 

Just as perhaps he mused, " My plans, 

That soar, to earth may fall, 
Let once my army -leader, Lannes, 

Waver at yonder wall," 



28 THE WAIF. 

Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew 

A rider, bound on bound 
Full-galloping ; nor bridle drew 

Until he reached the mound. 

Then off there flung in smiling joy, 

And held himself erect 
By just his horse's mane, a boy : 

You hardly could suspect, — 
So tight he kept his lips compressed, 

Scarce any blood came through, — 
You looked twice ere you saw his breast 

Was all but shot in two. 

" Well," cried he, " Emperor ! by God's grace 

We 've got you Ratisbon ! 
The marshal 's in the market-place, 

And you '11 be there anon 
To see your flag-bird flap his vans 

Where I, to heart's desire, 
Perched him ! " The chief's eye flashed : his plans 

Soared up again like fire. 



THE CAMP. 29 

The chief's eye flashed ; but presently 

Softened itself, as sheathes 
A film the mother eagle's eye, 

When her bruised eaglet breathes : 
" You 're wounded ! " " Nay," his soldier's pride 

Touched to the quick, he said : 
" I 'm killed, Sire ! " And, his chief beside, 

Smiling the boy fell dead. 



30 



SONG. 



As the moon's soft splendor 
O'er the faint, cold starlight of heaven 
Is thrown, 
So thy voice most tender 
To the strings without soul has given 
Its own. 

The stars will awaken, 
Though the moon sleep a full hour later 
To-night : 
No leaf will be shaken, 
Whilst the dews of thy melody scatter 
Delight. 



SO^G. 31 

Though the sound overpowers, 
Sing again, with thy sweet voice revealing 
A tone 
Of some world far from ours, 
Where music and moonlight and feeling 
Are one. 



32 



AUTUMN. 



Sweet Sabbath of the year ! 

When evening lights decay, 
Thy parting steps, methinks, I hear 
teal from the world away. 

Amid thy silent bowers, 

'T is sad, but sweet, to dwell, 

Where falling leaves and fading flowers 
Around me breathe farewell. 

Along thy sunset skies 

Their glories melt in shade ; 

And, like the things we fondly prize, 
Seem lovelier as they fade. 



AUTUMN. 33 

A deep and crimson streak 

The dying leaves disclose ; 
As on consumption's waning cheek, 

'Mid ruin, blooms the rose. 

The scene each vision brings 

Of beauty in decay ; 
Of fair and early faded things, 

Too exquisite to stay ; 

Of joys that come no more ; 

Of flowers whose bloom is fled ; 
Of farewells wept upon the shore ; 

Of friends estranged or dead ; 

Of all, that now may seem 

To memory's tearful eye 
The vanished beauty of a dream, 

O'er which we gaze and sigh ! 



34 



THE LAMENT OF THE IKISH EMIGRANT. 



1 am sitting on the stile, Mary, 

Where we sat side by side, 
On a bright May morning, long ago, 

When first you were my bride ; 
The corn was springing fresh and green, 

And the lark sang loud and high, 
And the red was on your lip, Mary, 

And the love-light in your eye. 

The place is little changed, Mary ; 

The day is bright as then ; 
The lark's loud song is in my ear, 

And the corn is green again : 



THE LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT. 35 

But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, 
And your breath, warm on my cheek, 

And I still keep listening for the words 
You never more may speak. 

'T is but a step down yonder lane, 

And the little church stands near, — 
The church where we were wed, Mary, — 

I see the spire from here ; 
But the graveyard lies between, Mary, 

And my step might break your rest ; 
For I 've laid you, darling, down to sleep, 

With your baby on your breast. 

I am very lonely now, Mary, 

For the poor make no new friends ; 
But, O, they love the better still 

The few our Father sends ! 
And you were all I had, Mary, — 

My blessing and my pride ; 
There 's nothing left to care for now, 

Since my poor Mary died ! 



36 THE WAIF. 

Your's was the good, brave heart, Mary, 

That still kept hoping on, 
When the trust in God had left my soul, 

And my arms' young strength had gone. 
There was comfort ever on your lip, 

And the kind look on your brow ; 
I bless you, Mary, for that same, 

Though you cannot hear me now. 

I thank you for the patient smile, 

When your heart was fit to break, 
When the hunger-pain was gnawing there, 

And you hid it, for my sake ! 
I bless you for the pleasant word, 

When your heart was sad and sore ; 
O, I 'm thankful you are gone, Mary, 

Where grief can't reach you more ! 

I am bidding you a long farewell, 

My Mary, — kind and true ! 
But I '11 not forget you, darling, 

In the land I am going to : 



THE LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT. 37 

They say there 's bread and work for all, 
And the sun shines always there ; 

But I '11 not forget old Ireland, 
Were it fifty times as fair ! 

And often in those grand old woods 

I '11 sit and shut my eyes, 
And my heart will travel back again 

To the place where Mary lies ; 
And I '11 think I see the little stile 

Where we sat side by side, 
And the springing corn, and the bright May morn 

When first you were my bride ! 



3ft 



HE STANDETH AT THE DOOR AND 
KNOCKETH. 



In the silent midnight watches, 

List, — thy bosom door ! 
How it knocketh, — knocketh, — knocketh, - 

Knocketh evermore ! 
Say not 't is thy pulse's beating : 

'T is thy heart of sin ; 
'T is thy Saviour knocks, and crieth, 

" Rise, and let me in." 

Death comes on, with reckless footsteps, 

To the hall and hut : 
Think you Death will tarry, knocking, 

Where the door is shut ? 



HE STANDETH AT THE DOOR AND KNOCKETH. 39 

Jesus waiteth, — waiteth, — waiteth, — 

But the door is fast ; 
Grieved, away thy Saviour goeth ; 

Death breaks in at last. 

Then, 't is thine to stand entreating 

Christ to let thee in ; 
At the gate of heaven beating, 

Wailing for thy sin. 
Nay, — alas, thou foolish virgin ! 

Hast thou, then, forgot ? 
Jesus waited long to know thee, — 

Now he knows thee not. 



40 



KULNASATZ, MY REINDEER. 



Kulnasatz, my reindeer, 
We have a long journey to go ; 
The moors are vast, 
And we must haste. 
Our strength, I fear, 
Will fail, if we are slow ; 
And so 
Our songs will do. 

Kaige, the watery moor, 
Is pleasant unto me, 
Though long it be, 



KTJLNASATZ, MY REINDEER. 41 

Since it doth to my mistress lead, 

Whom I adore ; 

The Kilwa moor 
I ne'er again will tread. 

Thoughts filled my mind, 
Whilst I through Kaige passed, 
Swift as the wind, 
And my desire 
Winged with impatient fire ; 
My reindeer, let us haste ! 

So shall we quickly end our pleasing pain, — 

Behold my mistress there, 
With decent motion walking o'er the plain. 
Kulnasatz, my reindeer, 
Look yonder, where 

She washes in the lake ! 
See, while she swims, 
The water from her purer limbs 
New clearness take ! 



42 



SONNET ON AUTUMN. 



There is a fearful spirit busy now. 
Already have the elements unfurled 
Their banners : the great sea- wave is upcurled : 
The cloud comes : the fierce winds begin to blow 
About, and blindly on their errands go : 

And quickly will the pale red leaves be hurled 
From their dry boughs, and all the forest world, 
Stripped of its pride, be like a desert show. 
I love that moaning music which I hear 

In the bleak gusts of Autumn ; for the soul 
Seems gathering tidings from another sphere, 
And, in sublime, mysterious sympathy, 
Man's bounding spirit ebbs and swells more high, 
Accordant to the billow's loftier roll. 



43 



APRIL. 



All day the low-hung clouds have dropped 

Their garnered fulness down ; 
All day that soft gray mist hath wrapped 

Hill, valley, grove, and town. 

There has not been a sound to-day 

To break the calm of nature ; 
Nor motion, I might almost say, 

Of life, or living creature, — 

Of waving bough, or warbling bird, 

Or cattle faintly lowing ; 
I could have half believed I heard 

The leaves and blossoms growing. 



44 THE 7/AIF. 

I stood to hear — I love it well — 
The rain's continuous sound ; 

Small drops, but thick and fast they fell, 
Down straight into the ground. 

For leafy thickness is not yet 
Earth's naked breast to screen, 

Though every dripping branch is set 
With shoots of tender green. 

Sure, since I looked at early morn, 

Those honeysuckle -buds 
Have swelled to double growth ; that thorn 

Hath put forth larger studs ; 

That lilac's cleaving cones have burst, 
The milk-white flowers revealing ; 

Even now, upon my senses first 
Me thinks their sweets are stealing. 

The very earth, the steamy air, 
Is all with fragrance rife ; 



APRIL. 45 

And grace and beauty everywhere 
Are flushing into life. 

Down, down they come, — those fruitful stores ! 

Those earth-rejoicing drops ! 
A momentary deluge pours, — 

Then thins, decreases, stops. 

And ere the dimples on the stream" 

Have circled out of sight, 
Lo ! from the west, a parting gleam 

Breaks forth of amber light. 

But yet, behold ! abrupt and loud, 

Comes down the glittering rain ; 
The farewell of a passing cloud, 

The fringes of her train. 



4fi 



SONG. 



Love is a sickness full of woes, 

All remedies refusing ; 
A plant that most with cutting grows, 
Most barren with best using. 
Why so ? 
More we enjoy it, more it dies ; 
If not enjoyed, it sighing cries 
Heigh-ho ! 

Love is a torment of the mind, 

A tempest everlasting ; 
And Jove hath made it of a kind 

Not well, nor full, nor fasting. 



SONG. 47 



Why so ? 
More we enjoy it, more it dies ; 
If not enjoyed, it sighing cries 

Heigh-ho ! 



48 



THE AWAKENING OF ENDYMION. 



Lone upon a mountain, the pine-trees wailing round 
him, 
Lone upon a mountain the Grecian youth is laid ; 
Sleep, mystic sleep, for many a year has bound him, 
Yet his beauty, like a statue's, pale and fair, is un- 
decayed. 

When will he awaken ? 

When will he awaken ? a loud voice hath been crying 

Night after night, and the cry has been in vain ; 
Winds, woods, and waves found echoes for replying, 
But the tones of the beloved ones were never heard 
again. 

When will he awaken ? 
Asked the midnight's silver queen. 



THE AWAKENING OF ENDYM10N. 49 

Never mortal eye has looked upon his sleeping ; 
Parents, kindred, comrades have mourned for him 
as dead ; 
By day the gathered clouds have had him in their 
keeping, 
And at night the solemn shadows round his rest are 
shed. 

When will he awaken ? 

Long has been the cry of faithful Love's imploring ; 
Long has Hope been watching with soft eyes fixed 
above ; 
When will the Fates, the life of life restoring, 
Own themselves vanquished by much-enduring 
Love ? 

When will he awaken ? 
Asks the midnight's weary queen. 

Beautiful the sleep that she has watched untiring, 
Lighted up with visions from yonder radiant sky, 

Full of an immortal's glorious inspiring, 

Softened by a woman's meek and loving sigh. 

When will he awaken ? 
4 



50 THE WAIF. 

He has been dreaming of old heroic stories, 

And the poet's world has entered in his soul ; 
He has grown conscious of life's ancestral glories, 
When sages and when kings first upheld the mind's 
control. 

When will he awaken ? 
Asks the midnight's stately queen. 

Lo, the appointed midnight ! the present hour is fated ; 

It is Endymion's planet that rises on the air ; 
How long, how tenderly his goddess love has waited, 

Waited with a love too mighty for despair ! 
Soon he will awaken ! 

Soft amid the pines is a sound as if of singing, 
Tones that seem the lute's from the breathing 
flowers depart ; 
Not a wind that wanders o'er Mount Latmos but is 
bringing 
Music that is murmured from Nature's inmost heart. 
Soon he will awaken 
To his and midnight's queen ! 



THE AWAKENING OF ENDYMION. 51 

Lovely is the green earth, — she knows the hour is 
holy; 
Starry are the heavens, lit with eternal joy ; 
Light like their own is dawning sweet and slowly 
O'er the fair and sculptured forehead of that yet 
dreaming boy. 

Soon he will awaken ! 

Red as the red rose towards the morning turning, 

Warms the youth's lip to the watcher's near his own ; 
While the dark eyes open, bright, intense, and burn- 
ing 
With a life more glorious than, ere they closed, was 
known. 

Yes, he has awakened 
For the midnight's happy queen ! 

What is this old history, but a lesson given, 

How true love still conquers by the deep strength 
of truth, — 
How all the impulses, whose native home is heaven, 
Sanctify the visions of hope, and faith, and youth ? 
'T is for such they waken ! 



52 THE WAIF. 

When every worldly thought is utterly forsaken, 

Comes the starry midnight, felt by life's gifted few ; 
Then will the spirit from its earthly sleep awaken 
To a being more intense, more spiritual, and true. 
So doth the soul awaken, 
Like that youth to night's fair queen ! 



53 



THE LILY OF NITHSDALE. 



She 's gane to dwell in heaven, my lassie, 

She 's gane to dwell i' heaven ! 
Ye 're owre pure, quo' the voice of God, 

For dwelling out o' heaven ! 

0, what '11 she do in heaven, my lassie ? 

0, what '11 she do in heaven ? 
She '11 mix her ain thoughts wi' angels' sangs, 

And make them mair meet for heaven ! 

She was beloved by a', my lassie, 

She was beloved by a' ; 
But an angel fell in luve wi' her, 

An' took her frae us a'. 



54 THE WAIF. 

Low there thou lies, my lassie, 

Low there thou lies ; 
A bonnier form ne'er went to the yird, 

Nor frae it will arise. 

I looked on thy death-cold face, my lassie, 
I looked on thy death-cold face ; 

Thou seemed a lilie new cut in the bud, 
An' fading in its place. 

I looked on thy death-shut eye, my lassie, 
I looked on thy death-shut eye ; 

An' a lovelier light i' the brow of heaven 
Fell Time shall ne'er destroy. 

Thy lips were ruddie and calm, my lassie, 
Thy lips were ruddie and calm ; 

But gane was the holy breath o' heaven, 
To sing the evening psalm. 

There 's nought but dust now mine, lassie ; 

There 's nought but dust now mine ; 
My saul 's wi' thee i' the cauld grave, 

An' why should I stay behin' ? 



55 



TO THE MOCKING-BIRD. 



Winged mimic of the woods ! thou motley fool, 

Who shall thy gay buffoonery describe ? 
Thine ever-ready notes of ridicule 

Pursue thy fellows still with jest and gibe. 
Wit, — sophist, — songster, — Yorick of thy tribe, 

Thou sportive satirist of Nature's school, 
To thee the palm of scoffing we ascribe, 

Arch scoffer, and mad Abbot of Misrule ! 
For such thou art by day, — but all night long 

Thou pour'st a soft, sweet, pensive, solemn strain, 
As if thou didst in this, thy moonlight song, 

Like to the melancholy Jacques, complain, 
Musing on falsehood, violence, and wrong, 

And sighing for thy motley coat again. 



56 



CHURCH-BELLS HEARD AT EVENING. 



O melancholy bells, who toll the way 

To dusty death ! 
O damp, green church-yard, — mounds of clay, 
Arched inward by gray bones, which once, men say, 

Were moved by breath ! 

0, never seek I ye, when the summer day 

Is past and flown ! 
But rather do I wander far away, 
Where'er kind voices sound, or children play, 

Or love is known ; 



CHURCH-BELLS HEARD AT EVENING. 57 

By some friend's quiet hearth, where gentle words 

Unsought are won ; 

'Mongst cheerful music sweet of morning birds ; 

Or list to lo wings deep of distant herds, 

At set of sun ! 

Where Nature breathes her blossoms, sweet thoughts 
rise, 

Or rivers run, — 
Where'er life's sunny summer spirit flies, 
There let me be, until my body dies, 

And all is done ! 



58 



THE DEATH-BED. 



We watched her breathing through the night, 

Her breathing soft and low, 
As in her breast the wave of life 

Kept heaving to and fro. 

So silently we seemed to speak, 

So slowly moved about, 
As we had lent her half our powers 

To eke her being out. 

Our very hopes belied our fears, 

Our fears our hopes belied ; 
We thought her dying when she slept, 

And sleeping when she died. 



THE DEATH-BED. 59 

For when the morn came dim and sad 

And chill with early showers, 
Her quiet eyelids closed ; — she had 

Another morn than ours. 



60 



THE EVENING HOUR. 



This is the hour when memory wakes 

Visions of joy that could not last ; 
This is the hour when fancy takes 
A survey of the past ! 

She brings before the pensive mind 

The hallowed scenes of earlier years, 
And friends who long have been consigned 
To silence and to tears ! 

The few we liked, the one we loved, — 
A sacred band ! — come stealing on ; 
And many a form far hence removed, 
And many a pleasure gone ! 



THE EVENCNG HOUR. 61 

Friendships that now in death are hushed, 

And young affection's broken chain, 
And hopes that fate too quickly crushed, 
In memory live again ! 

Few watch the fading gleams of day, 

But muse on hopes as quickly flown ; 
Tint after tint they died away, 

Till all at last were gone ! 

This is the hour when fancy wreathes 

Her spells round joys that could not last ; 
This is the hour when memory breathes 
A sigh to pleasures past ! 



62 



LOVE. 



He stood beside a cottage lone, 

And listened to a lute, 
One summer eve, when the breeze was gone, 

And the nightingale was mute. 
The moon was watching on the hill, 
The stream was staid, and the maples still, 

To hear a lover's suit, 
That — half a vow, and half a prayer — 
Spoke less of hope than of despair : 
And rose into the calm, soft air, 

As sweet and low 

As he had heard — O, woe ! O, woe ! — 

The flutes of angels, long ago ! 



LOVE. 63 

" By every hope that earthward clings, 
By faith that mounts on angel-wings, 
By dreams that make night-shadows bright, 
And truths that turn our day to night, 
By childhood's smile, and manhood's tear, 
By pleasure's day, and sorrow's year, 
By all the strains that fancy sings, 
And pangs that time so surely brings, — 
For joy or grief, for hope or fear, 
For all hereafter as for here, 
In peace or strife, in storm or shine, 
My soul is wedded unto thine ! " 

And for its soft and sole reply, 
A murmur, and a sweet, low sigh, 

But not a spoken word ; 
And yet they made the waters start 

Into his eyes who heard, 
For they told of a most loving heart, 

In a voice like that of a bird ; — 
Of a heart that loved, though it loved in vain, — 
A grieving, and yet not a pain, — 



64 THE WAIF. 

A love that took an early root, 

And had an early doom, 
Like trees that never grow to fruit, 

And early shed their bloom, — 
Of vanished hopes and happy smiles, 

All lost for evermore ; 
Like ships, that sailed for sunny isles, 

But never came to shore ! 



65 



NIGHT AMONG THE ALPS. 



Come, golden Evening ! in the west 

Enthrone the storm-dispelling sun, 
And let the triple rainbow rest 

O'er all the mountain-tops. — 'T is done ; 
The tempest ceases ; bold and bright, 

The rainbow shoots from hill to hill ; 
Down sinks the sun ; on presses night ; 

Mont Blanc is lovely still ! 

There take thy stand, my spirit ! — spread 
The world of shadows at thy feet ; 

And mark how calmly overhead 

The stars, like saints in glory, meet : 



66 THE WAIF. 

While, hid in solitude sublime, 

Methinks I muse on Nature's tomb, 

And hear the passing foot of Time 
Step through the silent gloom. 

All in a moment, crash on crash, 

From precipice to precipice, 
An avalanche's ruins dash 

Down to the nethermost abyss, 
Invisible ; the ear alone 

Pursues the uproar till it dies ; 
Echo to echo, groan for groan, 

From deep to deep, replies. 

Silence again the darkness seals, 

Darkness that may be felt ; — but soon 
The silver-clouded east reveals 

The midnight spectre of the moon ; 
In half-eclipse she lifts her horn, — 

Yet o'er the host of heaven supreme 
Brings the faint semblance of a morn, 

With her awakening beam. 



NIGHT AMONG THE ALPS. 67 

Ah ! at her touch, these Alpine heights 

Unreal mockeries appear ; 
With blacker shadows, ghastlier lights, 

Emerging, as she climbs the sphere ; 
A crowd of apparitions pale ! 

I hold my breath in chill suspense, — 
They seem so exquisitely frail, — 

Lest they should vanish hence. 

I breathe again, I freely breathe ; 

Thee, Leman's Lake, once more I trace, 
Like Dian's crescent, far beneath, 

As beautiful as Dian's face : 
Pride of the land that gave me birth ! 

All that thy waves reflect I love, 
Where heaven itself, brought down to earth, 

Looks fairer than above. 

Safe on thy banks again I stray ; 

The trance of poesy is o'er, 
And I am here at dawn of day, 

Gazing on mountains as before, 



68 THE WAIF. 

Where all the strange mutations wrought 
Were magic feats of my own mind ; 

For, in that fairy land of thought, 
Whate'er I seek, I find. 



69 



THEY ARE ALL GONE. 



They are all gone into a world of light, 

And I alone sit lingering here ! 
Their very memory is fair and bright, 

And my sad thoughts doth clear. 

It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast, 
Like stars upon some gloomy grove, 

Or those faint beams in which the hill is dressed, 
After the sun's remove. 

I see them walking in an air of glory, 
Whose light doth trample on my days, — 

My days, which are at best but dull and hoary, 
Mere glimmerings and decays. 



70 THE WAIF. 

O holy hope, and high humility, 

High as the heavens above ! 
These are your walks, and ye have showed 
them me, 

To kindle my cold love. 

Dear, beauteous Death ! the jewel of the just ! 

Shining nowhere but in the dark ! 
What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust, 

Could man outlook that mark ! 

He that hath found some fledged bird's nest 
may know, 

At first sight, if the bird be flown ; 
But what fair field or grove he sings in now, 

That is to him unknown. 

And yet, as angels, in some brighter dreams, 
Call to the soul, when man doth sleep, 

So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted 
themes, 
And into glory peep ! 






71 



TO A LADY. 



Lady, too fair ! the sleepless mariner, 

With anxious heart, scanneth the midnight sky ; 
On one bright star alone, though hosts shine near, 

Fixing his eye. 

For, though the sea in cloud-high waves may rise, 
Though the storm rage, and felon winds rebel, 
He knows that sweet star beameth in the skies 

Unchangeable. 

x\las for him who life's rough sea would try, 

Fixing his gaze on meteors blazing far, 
Making the changeful beam of beauty's eye 

His polar star ! 



72 THE WAIF. 

The seaman trusts, indeed, nor trusts in vain, 

For constant are the bright-eyed host of heaven ; 
While the swift changing of the fickle main 

To beauty 's given. 

But thou, who in the pride of beauty brave 

Shinest brighter than the fairest star on high, 
Take not thy pattern from the fickle wave, 

But from the sky ! 



73 



EACH IN ALL. 



Little thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown, 

Of thee, from the hill-top looking down ; 

And the heifer, that lows in the upland farm, 

Far heard, lows not thine ear to charm ; 

The sexton, tolling the bell at noon, 

Dreams not that great Napoleon 

Stops his horse, and lists with delight, 

As his files sweep round yon distant height ; 

Nor knowest thou what argument 

Thy life to thy neighbour's creed has lent : 

All are needed by each one, 

Nothing is fair or good alone. 



74 THE WAIF. 

I sought the sparrow's note from heaven, 
Singing at dawn on the alder bough ; 

I brought him home in his nest at even ; — 
He sings the song, but it pleases not now ; 

For I did not bring home the river and sky ; 

He sang to my ear ; they sang to my eye. 

The delicate shells lay on the shore ; 

The bubbles of the latest wave 

Fresh pearls to their enamel gave ; 

And the bellowing of the savage sea 

Greeted their safe escape to me ; 

I wiped away the weeds and foam, 

And fetched my sea-born treasures home ; 

But the poor, unsightly, noisome things 

Had left their beauty on the shore 

With the sun, and the sand, and the wild uproar ! 

Then I said, " I covet Truth ; 

Beauty is unripe childhood's cheat, — 
I leave it behind with the games of youth." 

As I spoke, beneath my feet 



EACH IN ALL. 75 

The ground-pine curled its pretty wreath, 

Running over the club-moss burrs ; 
I inhaled the violet's breath ; 

Around me stood the oaks and firs ; 
Pine cones and acorns lay on the ground ; 
Above me soared the eternal sky, 
Full of light and Deity ; 
Again I saw, again I heard, 
The rolling river, the morning bird ; — 
Beauty through my senses stole, 
I yielded myself to the perfect whole. 



76 



THE LOVER TO THE GLOWWORMS. 



Ye living lamps, by whose dear light 
The nightingale does sit so late, 

And, studying all the summer night, 
Her matchless songs does meditate ! 

Ye country comets, that portend 
No war, nor prince's funeral, 

Shining unto no other end 

Than to presage the grass's fall ! 

Ye glowworms, whose officious flame 
To wandering mowers shows the way, 

That in the night have lost their aim, 
And after foolish fires do stray ! 



THE LOVER TO THE GLOWWORMS. 77 

Your courteous lights in vain you waste, 

Since Juliana here is come ; 
For she my mind hath so displaced, 

That I shall never find my home. 



78 



HYMN OF THE CHURCH-YARD. 



Ah me ! this is a sad and silent city ; 

Let me walk softly o'er it, and survey 
Its grassy streets with melancholy pity ! 

Where are its children ? where their gleesome 
play ? 
Alas ! their cradled rest is cold and deep, — 
Their playthings are thrown by, and they asleep. 

This is pale beauty's bourn: but where the beautiful, 
Whom I have seen come forth at evening's hours, 

Leading their aged friends, with feelings dutiful, 
Amid the wreaths of spring, to gather flowers ? 



HYMN OF THE CHURCH-YARD. 79 

Alas ! no flowers are here but flowers of death, 
And those who once were sweetest sleep beneath. 

This is a populous place : but where the bustling, — 
The crowded buyers of the noisy mart, — 

The lookers on, — the snowy garments rustling, — 
The money-changers, — and the men of art ? 

Business, alas ! hath stopped in mid career, 

And none are anxious to resume it here. 

This is the home of grandeur : where are they, — 
The rich, the great, the glorious, and the wise ? 

Where are the trappings of the proud, the gay, — 
The gaudy guise of human butterflies ? 

Alas ! all lowly lies each lofty brow, 

And the green sod dizens their beauty now. 

This is a place of refuge and repose : 

Where are the poor, the old, the weary wight, 

The scorned, the humble, and the man of woes, 
Who wept for morn, and sighed again for night ? 

Their sighs at last have ceased, and here they sleep 

Beside their scorners, and forget to weep. 



80 THE WAIF. 

This is a place of gloom : where are the gloomy ? 

The gloomy are not citizens of death : 
Approach and look, where the long grass is plumy ; 

See them above ! they are not found beneath ! 
For these low denizens, with artful wiles, 
Nature, in flowers, contrives her mimic smiles. 

This is a place of sorrow : friends have met 

And mingled tears o'er those who answered not : 

And where are they whose eyelids then were wet ? 
Alas ! their griefs, their tears, are all forgot ; 

They, too, are landed in this silent city, 

Where there is neither love, nor tears, nor pity. 

This is a place of fear : the firmest eye 
Hath quailed to see its shadowy dreariness ; 

But Christian hope, and heavenly prospects high, 
And earthly cares, and nature's weariness, 

Have made the timid pilgrim cease to fear, 

And long to end his painful journey here. 



81 



DIRGE IN AUTUMN. 



'T is an autumnal eve, — the low winds sighing 

To wet leaves, rustling as they hasten by ; 
The eddying gust to tossing boughs replying, 

And ebon darkness filling all the sky ; 
The moon, pale mistress, palled in solemn vapor, 

The rack, swift wandering through the void above, 
As I, a mourner by my lonely taper, 

Send back to faded hours the plaint of love. 

Blossoms of peace, once in my pathway springing, 
Where have your brightness and your splendor 
gone ? 



82 THE WAIF. 

And thou, whose voice came sweet to me as singing, 
What region holds thee in the vast unknown ? 

What star, far brighter than the rest, contains thee, 
Beloved, departed, — empress of my heart ? 

What bond of full beatitude enchains thee 
In realms unveiled by pen or prophet's art ? 

Ah ! loved and lost ! in these autumnal hours, 

When fairy colors deck the painted tree, 
When the vast woodlands seem a sea of flowers, 

O, then my soul, exulting, bounds to thee ; 
Springs, as to clasp thee yet in this existence, 

Yet to behold thee at my lonely side ! 
But the fond vision melts at once in distance, 

And my sad heart gives echo, — She has died ! 

Yes ! when the morning of her years was brightest, 
That angel presence into dust went down ; 

While yet with rosy dreams her rest was lightest, 
Death, for the olive, wove the cypress crown ; 

Sleep, which no waking knows, o'ercame her bosom, — 
O'ercame her large, bright, spiritual eyes ; 



DIRGE IN AUTUMN. 83 

Spared in her bower connubial one fair blossom, — 
Then bore her spirit to the upper skies. 

There let me meet her, when, life's struggles over, 

The pure in love and thought their faith renew, 
Where man's forgiving and redeeming Lover 

Spreads out his paradise to every view. 
Let the wild autumn, with its leaves descending, 

Howl on the winter's verge ! — yet spring will 
come ; 
So, my freed soul, no more 'gainst fate contending, 

With all it loveth, shall regain its home. 



84 



THE DROP OF DEW. 



See how the orient dew, 
Shed from the bosom of the morn 

Into the blowing roses, 
Is careless of its mansion new : 
For the clear region where 't was born 

It in itself incloses ; 
And in its little globe's extent, 
Frames, as it can, its native element. 
How it the purple flower does slight, 

Scarce touching where it lies ; 
But, gazing back upon the skies, 
Shines with a mournful light, 



THE DROP OF DEW. 85 

Like its own tear ! 
Because so long divided from the sphere, 
Restless it rolls, and unsecure, 

Trembling, lest it grow impure ; 
Till the warm sun pities its pain, 
And to the skies exhales it back again. 

So the soul, that drop, that ray, 
Of the clear fountain of eternal day, 
Could it within the human flower be seen, 
Remembering still its former height, 
Shuns the sweet leaves and blossoms green ; 
And, recollecting its own light, 
Does, in its pure and circling thoughts, express 
The greater heaven in a heaven less. 
In how coy a figure wound, 
Every way it turns away ! 
So the world excluding round, 
Yet receiving in the day : 
Dark beneath, but bright above ; 
Here disdaining, there in love. 
How loose and easy hence to go ! 
How girt and ready to ascend ! 



86 THE WAIF. 

Moving but on a point below, 

It all about does upwards bend. 
Such did the manna's sacred dew distil, 
White and entire, although congealed and chill ; 
Congealed on earth ; but does, dissolving, run 
Into the glories of the almighty sun. 



87 



WISHES. 



Whoe'er she be, 

That not impossible she, 

That shall command my heart and me ; 

Where'er she lie, 

Locked up from mortal eye 

In shady leaves of destiny ; 

Till that ripe birth 

Of studied fate stand forth 

And teach her fair steps to our earth ; 



88 THE WAIF. 

Till that divine 

Idea take a shrine 

Of crystal flesh, through which to shine ; 

Meet you her, my wishes, 
Bespeak her to my blisses, 
And be ye called my absent kisses. 

I wish her 



A face that 's best 

By its own beauty dressed, 

And can alone command the rest ; 

A cheek where youth 

And blood, with pen of truth, 

Write what the reader sweetly ru'th ; 

• . • . • 
Eyes that displace 

The neighbour diamond, and outface 
That sunshine by their own sweet grace ; 



WISHES. 89 

Tresses that wear 

Jewels, but to declare 

How much themselves more precious are, 

Whose native ray 

Can tame the wanton day 

Of gems, that in their bright shades play ; 

Days that need borrow 

No part of their good morrow 

From a forespent night of sorrow ; 

Days that, in spite 

Of darkness, by the light 

Of a clear mind are day all night ; 

Life that dares send 

A challenge to its end, 

And, when it comes, say, Welcome, friend ! 

Sydnsean showers 

Of sweet discourse, whose powers 

Can crown old Winter's head with flowers ; 



90 THE WAIF. 



Whate'er delight 

Can make Day's forehead bright, 

Or give down to the wings of Night ; 

In her whole frame 

Have nature all the name, 

And art and ornament the shame. 

She that dares be 

What these lines wish to see ; 

I seek no farther ; it is she. 



91 



TO ALTHEA, FROM PRISON. 



When Love with unconfined wings 

Hovers within my gates, 
And my divine Althea brings 

To whisper at the grates : 
When I lie tangled in her hair, 

And fettered to her eye ; 
The birds, that wanton in the air, 

Know no such liberty. 

When flowing cups run swiftly round 
With no allaying Thames, 

Our careless heads with roses bound, 
Our hearts with loyal flames : 



92 THE WAIF. 

When thirsty grief in wine we steep, 
When healths and draughts go free ; 

Fishes, that tipple in the deep, 
Know no such liberty. 

When, like committed linnet, I 

With shriller throat shall sing 
The sweetness, mercy, majesty, 

And glories of my King : 
When I shall voice aloud, how good 

He is, how great should be ; 
Enlarged winds, that curl the flood, 

Know no such liberty. 

Stone walls do not a prison make, 

Nor iron bars a cage ; 
Minds innocent and quiet take 

That for an hermitage : 
If I have freedom in my love, 

And in my soul am free ; 
Angels alone, that soar above, 

Enjoy such liberty. 



93 



DEATH OF A CHILD. 



I cannot make him dead ! 

His fair, sunshiny head 
Is ever bounding round my study chair ; 

Yet, when my eyes, now dim 

With tears, I turn to him, 
The vision vanishes ; — he is not there ! 

I walk my parlour floor, 

And, through the open door, 
I hear a footfall on his chamber stair ; 

I 'm stepping toward the hall 

To give the boy a call ; 
And then bethink me that — he is not there ! 



94 THE "WAIF. 

I thread the crowded street : 

A satchelled lad I meet, 
With the same beaming eyes and colored hair ; 

And, as he 's running by, 

Follow him with my eye, 
Scarcely believing that — he is not there ! 



I know his face is hid 

Under the coffin lid ; 
Closed are his eyes ; cold is his forehead fair ; 

My hand that marble felt ; 

O'er it in prayer I knelt ; 
Yet my heart whispers that — he is not there ! 



I cannot make him dead ! 

When passing by the bed, 
So long watched over with parental care, 

My spirit and my eye 

Seek it inquiringly, 
Before the thought comes that — he is not there ! 



DEATH OF A CHILD. 95 

When, at the cool, gray break 

Of day, from sleep I wake, 
With my first breathing of the morning air 

My soul goes up with joy 

To Him who gave my boy ; 
Then comes the sad thought, that — he is not there ! 



When, at the day's calm close, 

Before we seek repose, 
I 'm with his mother, offering up our prayer ; 

Whate'er I may be saying, 

I am, in spirit, praying 
For our boy's spirit, though — he is not there ! 



Not there ! Where, then, is he ? — 

The form I used to see 
Was but the raiment that he used to wear ; 

The grave, that now doth press 

Upon that cast-off dress, 
Is but his wardrobe locked, — he is not there ! 



96 THE WAIF. 

He lives ! — in all the past 

He lives ; nor, to the last, 
Of seeing him again will I despair : 

In dreams I see him now ; 

And on his angel brow 
I see it written, " Thou shalt see me there ! " 

Yes, we all live to God ! 

Father, thy chastening rod 
So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear, 

That, in the spirit land, 

Meeting at thy right hand, 
'T will be our heaven to find that — he is there ! 



97 



HUMAN PRIDE. 



Why should man's high aspiring mind 

Burn in him with so proud a breath, 
When all his haughty views can find 

In this world yields to death ? 
The fair, the brave, the vain, the wise, 

The rich and poor, the great and small, 
Are each but worms' anatomies, 

To strew his quiet hall. 

Power may make many earthly gods, 
Where gold or bribery's guilt prevails ; 

But death's unwelcome, honest odds 
Kick o'er the unequal scales. 
7 



98 TUB WAIF. 

The flattered great may clamors raise 

Of power, — and their own weakness hide ; 

But death shall find unlooked-for ways 
To end the farce of pride. 

An arrow, hurtled e'er so high, 

E'en by a giant's sinewy strength, 
In time's untraced eternity, 

Goes but a pigmy length, — 
Nay, whirring from the tortured string, 

With all its pomp of hurried flight, 
'T is by the skylark's little wing 

Outmeasured in its height. 

Just so man's boasted strength and power 

Shall fade before death's lightest stroke ; 
Laid lower than the meanest flower, — 

Whose pride o'ertopped the oak: 
And he, who, like a blighting blast, 

Dispeopled worlds with war's alarms, 
Shall be himself destroyed, at last, 

By poor despised worms. 



HUMAN PRIDE. 99 

Tyrants in vain their powers secure, 

And awe slaves' murmurs with a frown ; 

But unawed death at last is sure 
To sap the Babels down. 

A stone thrown upward to the sky- 
Will quickly meet the ground again : 

So men-gods of earth's vanity- 
Shall drop at last to men ; 

And power and pomp their all resign, 

Blood-purchased thrones and banquet-halls. 
Fate waits to sack ambition's shrine 

As bare as prison walls, 
Where the poor suffering wretch bows down 

To laws a lawless power hath passed ; — 
And pride, and power, and king, and clown 

Shall be death's slaves at last. 

Time, the prime minister of death, 

There 's naught can bribe his honest will ; 

He stops the richest tyrant's breath, 
And lays his mischief still : 



100 THE WAIF. 

Each wicked scheme for power he stops, 
With grandeur's false and mock display ; 

As eve's shades from high mountain-tops 
Fade with the rest away. 

Death levels all things in his march, 

Naught can resist his mighty strength ; 
The palace and triumphal arch 

Shall mete their shadows' length : 
The rich, the poor, one common bed 

Shall find in the unhonored grave, 
Where weeds shall crown alike the head 

Of tyrant and of slave. 



101 



TO LUCASTA. 



If to be absent were to be 
Away from thee ; 
Or that, when I am gone, 
You or I were alone ; 
Then, my Lucasta, might I crave 
Pity from blustering wind or swallowing wave. 

But I '11 not sigh one blast or gale 
To swell my sail, 
Or pay a tear to 'suage 
The foaming blue-god's rage ; 
For, whether he will let me pass 
Or no, I 'm still as happy as I was. 



102 THE WAIF. 

Though seas and lands be 'twixt us both, 
Our faith and troth, 
Like separated souls, 
All time and space controls : 
Above the highest sphere we meet, 
Unseen, unknown, and greet as angels greet. 

So, then, we do anticipate 
Our after- fate, 
And are alive i' th 1 skies, 
If thus our lips and eyes 
Can speak like spirits unconfined 
In heaven, — their earthly bodies left behind. 



103 



WHERE ARE THE DEAD? 



Where are the mighty ones of ages past, 
Who o'er the world their inspiration cast, — 
Whose memories stir our spirits like a blast ? — 
W T here are the dead ? 

Where are old empires' sinews snapped and gone ? 
Where is the Persian ? Mede ? Assyrian ? 
Where are the kings of Egypt ? Babylon ? — 
Where are the dead ? 

Where are the mighty ones of Greece ? Where be 
The men of Sparta and Thermopylae ? 
The conquering Macedonian, where is he ? — 
Where are the dead ? 



104 THE WAIF. 

Where are Rome's founders ? Where her chiefest 

son, 
Before whose name the whole known world bowed 

down, — 
Whese conquering arm chased the retreating sun ? — 
Where are the dead ? 

Where 's the bard- warrior-king of Albion's state, 
A pattern for earth's sons to emulate, — 
The truly, nobly, wisely, goodly great ? — 
Where are the dead ? 

Where is Gaul's hero, who aspired to be 
A second Caesar in his mastery, — 
To whom earth's crowned ones trembling bent the 
knee ? — 
Where are the dead ? 

Where is Columbia's son, her darling child, 
Upon whose birth Virtue and Freedom smiled, — 
The Western Star, bright, pure, and undented ? — 
Where are the dead ? 



WHERE ARE THE DEAD? 105 

Where are the sons of song, the soul-inspired, — 
The bard of Greece, whose muse (of heaven acquired) 
With admiration ages past has fired, — 
The classic dead ? 

Where is the fairie minstrel ? and, O, where 
Is that lone bard who dungeon gyres did bear, 
For his love-song breathed in a princess' ear, — 
The gentle dead ? 

Where is the poet who in death was crowned, — 
Whose clay-cold temples laurel chaplets bound, 
Mocking the dust, — in life no honor found, — 
Th' insulted dead ? 

Greater than all, — an earthly sun enshrined, — 
Where is the king of bards ? Where shall we find 
The Swan of Avon, — monarch of the mind, — 
The mighty dead ? 

Did they all die, when did their bodies die, 
Like the brute dead passing for ever by ? 



106 THE WAIF. 

Then wherefore was their intellect so high, — 
The mighty dead ? 

Why was it not confined to earthly sphere, — 
To earthly wants ? If it must perish here, 
Why did they languish for a bliss more dear, — 
The blessed dead ? 

All things in nature are proportionate : 
Is man alone in an imperfect state, — 
He who doth all things rule and regulate ? — 
Then where the dead ? 

[f here they perished, where their beings germ, — 
Here were their thoughts', their hopes', their wishes' 

term, — 
Why should a giant's strength propel a worm ? — 
The dead ! the dead ! 

There are no dead ! The forms, indeed, did die, 
That cased the ethereal beings now on high : 
'T is but the outward covering is thrown by : — 
This is the dead ! 



WHERE ARE THE DEAD? 107 

The spirits of the lost, of whom we sing, 
Have perished not ; they have but taken wing, — 
Changing an earthly for a heavenly spring : 
There are the dead ! 

Thus is all nature perfect. Harmony 
Pervades the whole, by His all- wise decree, 
With whom are those, to vast infinity, 
We misname dead. 



108 



A CHRISTMAS HYMN. 



It was the calm and silent night ! 

Seven hundred years and fifty-three 
Had Rome been growing up to might, 

And now was queen of land and sea. 
No sound was heard of clashing wars, — 

Peace brooded o'er the hushed domain : 
Apollo, Pallas, Jove, and Mars 

Held undisturbed their ancient reign, 
In the solemn midnight, 
Centuries ago. 



A CHRISTMAS HYMN. 109 

'T was in the calm and silent night, 

The senator of haughty Rome 
Impatient urged his chariot's flight, 

From lordly revel rolling home : 
Triumphal arches gleaming swell 

His breast with thoughts of boundless sway ; 
What recked the Roman what befell 

A paltry province far away, 

In the solemn midnight, 
Centuries ago ? 

Within that province far away, 

Went plodding home a weary boor ; 
A streak of light before him lay, 

Fallen through a half-shut stable-door 
Across his path. He passed, — for naught 

Told what was going on within ; 
How keen the stars, his only thought, — 

The air, how calm, and cold, and thin, 
In the solemn midnight, 
Centuries ago ! 



110 THE WAIF. 

0, strange indifference ! low and high 

Drowsed over common joys and cares ; 
The earth was still, — but knew not why 

The world was listening, — unawares. 
How calm a moment may precede 

One that shall thrill the world for ever ! 
To that still moment, none would heed, 

Man's doom was linked no more to sever, 
In the solemn midnight, 
Centuries ago ! 

It is the calm and solemn night ! 

A thousand bells ring out, and throw 
Their joyous peals abroad, and smite 

The darkness, — charmed and holy now ! 
The night that erst no shame had worn, 

To it a happy name is given ; 
For in that stable lay, new-born, 

The peaceful Prince of earth and heaven, 
In the solemn midnight, 
Centuries ago ! 



Ill 



NO MORE. 



No more ! a harp-string's deep, sad, breaking tone, 

A last low summer breeze, a far-off knell, 
A dying echo of rich music gone, 

Breathe through those words, — those murmurs of 
farewell, — 

No more ! 

To dwell in peace with home affections bound, 
To know the sweetness of a mother's voice, 

To feel the spirit of her love around, 
And in the blessing of her age rejoice, — 

No more ! 



112 THE WAIF. 

A dirge-like sound ! — to greet the early friend 
Unto the hearth, his place of many days ; 

In the glad song with kindred lips to blend, 
Or join the household laughter by the blaze, — 

No more ! 

Through woods that shadowed our first years, to rove, 

With all our native music in the air ; 
To watch the sunset with the eyes we love, 

And turn and meet our own heart's answer there, — 

No more ! 

Words of despair ! — yet earth's, all earth's, the woe 
Their passion breathes, — the desolately deep ! 

That sound in heaven, — O, image, then, the flow 
Of gladness in its tones ! — to part, to weep, — 

No more ! 

To watch in dying hope affection's wane, 

To see the beautiful from life depart, 
To wear impatiently a secret chain, 

To waste the untold riches of the heart, — 

No more ! 



NO MORE. 113 

Through long, long years to seek, to strive, to yearn 
For human love, and never quench that thirst ; 

To pour the soul out, winning no return, 
O'er fragile idols, by delusion nursed, — 

No more ! 

On things that fail us, reed by reed, to lean ; 

To mourn the changed, the far away, the dead ; 
To send our searching spirits through the unseen, 

Intensely questioning for treasures fled, — 

No more ! 

Words of triumphant music ! bear we on 

The weight of life, the chain, the ungenial air; 

Their deathless meaning, when our tasks are done, 
To learn in joy ; — to struggle, to despair, — 

No more ! 



114 



TO DAFFODILS. 



Fair daffodils, we weep to see 

You haste away so soon ; 
As yet the early-rising sun 

Has not attained his noon : 
Stay, stay, 

Until the hastening day 
Has run 

But to the even-song ; 
And, having prayed together, we 

Will go with you along. 



TO DAFFODILS. 



115 



We have short time to stay, as you ; 

We have as short a spring, 
As quick a growth to meet decay, 

As you, or any thing : 
We die, 

As your hours do ; and dry 
Away 

Like to the summer's rain, 
Or as the pearls of morning dew, 

Ne'er to be found again. 



116 



TO PRIMROSES. 



Why do ye weep, sweet babes ? Can tears 
Speak grief in you, 
Who were but born 
Just as the modest morn 
Teemed her refreshing dew ? 
Alas ! you have not known that shower 
That mars a flower ; 
Nor felt th' unkind 
Breath of a blasting wind ; 
Nor are ye worn with years ; 

Or warped, as we, 
Who think it strange to see 
Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young, 
To speak by tears before ye have a tongue 



TO PRIMROSES. 117 

Speak, whimpering younglings ; and make known 
The reason why 
Ye droop and weep. 
Is it for want of sleep, 
Or childish lullaby ? 
Or, that ye have not seen as yet 
The violet ? 
Or brought a kiss 
From that sweetheart to this ? 
No, no ; this sorrow, shown 

By your tears shed, 
Would have this lecture read, 
" That things of greatest, so of meanest worth, 
Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought 
forth." 



118 



TO BLOSSOMS. 



Fair pledges of a fruitful tree, 
Why do ye fall so fast ? 
Your date is not so past, 

But you may stay yet here awhile 
To blush and gently smile, 
And go at last. 

What ! were ye born to be 
An hour or half's delight, 
And so to bid good night ? 

'T is pity nature brought ye forth 
Merely to show your worth, 
And lose you quite. 



TO BLOSSOMS. 119 

But you are lovely leaves, where we 
May read how soon things have 
Their end, though ne'er so brave ; 

And, after they have shown their pride, 
Like you, awhile, they glide 
Into the grave. 



120 



THE GRASSHOPPER. 

TO MY NOBLE FRIEND, MR. CHARLES COTTON. 

O thou, that swing'st upon the waving hair 

Of some well filled oaten beard, 
Drunk every night with a delicious tear 

Dropped thee from heaven, where now thou 'rt 
reared ! 

The joys of earth and air are thine entire, 

That with thy feet and wings dost hop and fly ; 

And when thy poppy works, thou dost retire 
To thy carved acorn-bed to lie. 

Up with the day, the sun thou welcom'st then, 
Sport'st in the gilt-plats of his beams, 

And all these merry days mak'st merry men, 
Thyself, and melancholy streams. 



THE GRASSHOPPER. 121 

But, ah, the sickle ! golden ears are cropped ; 

Ceres and Bacchus bid good night ; 
Sharp, frosty fingers all your flowers have topped, 

And what scythes spared, winds shave off quite. 

Poor, verdant fool ! and now, green ice ! thy joys 
Large and as lasting as thy perch of grass, 

Bid us lay in 'gainst winter rains, and poise 
Their floods with an o'erflowing glass. 

Thou best of men and friends ! we will create 
A genuine summer in each other's breast ; 

And, spite of this cold time and frozen fate, 
Thaw us a warm seat to our rest. 

Our sacred hearths shall burn eternally 
As vestal flames ; the north- wind, he 

Shall strike his frost-stretched wings, dissolve, and fly 
This iEtna in epitome. 

Dropping December shall come weeping in, 
Bewail th' usurping of his reign ; 



122 THE WAIF. 

But, when in showers of old Greek we begin, 
Shall cry, he hath his crown again ! 

Night, as clear Hesper, shall our tapers whip 
From the light casements where we play, 

And the dark hag from her black mantle strip, 
And stick there everlasting day. 

Thus, richer than untempted kings are we, 
That, asking nothing, nothing need : 

Though lord of all what seas embrace, yet he 
That wants himself is poor indeed. 



123 



SWEET PHOSPHOR, BRING THE DAY. 



Will 't ne'er be morning ? Will that promised light 
Ne'er break and clear those clouds of night ? 
Sweet Phosphor, bring the day, 
Whose conquering ray- 
May chase these fogs ! Sweet Phosphor, bring the day ! 

How long, how long shall these benighted eyes 

Languish in shades, like feeble flies 

Expecting Spring ? How long shall darkness soil 

The face of earth, and thus beguile 

Our souls of sprightful action ? When, when will day 

Begin to dawn, whose new-born ray 



124 THE WAIF. 

May gild the weathercocks of our devotion, 

And give our unsouled souls new motion ? 

Sweet Phosphor, bring the day ! 

Thy light will fray 

These horrid mists : Sweet Phosphor, bring the day ! 

Let those have night, that slyly love to immure 

Their cloistered crimes, and sin secure ; 

Let those have night, that blush to let men know 

The baseness they ne'er blush to do ; 

Let those have night, that love to have a nap 

And loll in Ignorance's lap ; 

Let those, whose eyes, like owls, abhor the light, 

Let those have night, that love the night : 

Sweet Phosphor, bring the day ! 

How sad delay 

Afflicts dull hopes ! Sweet Phosphor, bring the day ! 

Alas ! my light-in- vain-expecting eyes 
Can find no objects, but what rise 
From this poor mortal blaze, a dying spark 
Of Vulcan's forge, whose flames are dark, 



SWEET PHOSPHOR, BRING THE DAY. 125 

A dangerous, dull, blue-burning light, 
As melancholy as the night : 
Here 's all the suns that glitter in the sphere 
Of earth : Ah me ! what comfort 's here ? 
Sweet Phosphor, bring the day ! 
Haste, haste away, 

Heaven's loitering lamp ! Sweet Phosphor, bring the 
day! 

Blow, Ignorance ! O thou, whose idle knee 
Rocks earth into a lethargy, 
And with thy sooty fingers hast benight 
The world's fair cheeks, blow, blow thy spite ! 
Since thou hast puffed our greater taper, do 
Puff on, and out the lesser too : 
If e'er that breath-exiled flame return, 
Thou hast not blown, as it will burn : 
Sweet Phosphor, bring the day ! 
Light will repay 

The wrongs of night : Sweet Phosphor, bring the 
day! 



126 



THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. 



One more unfortunate, 
Weary of breath, 

Rashly importunate, 
Gone to her death ! 

Take her up tenderly, 
Lift her with care : 

Fashioned so slenderly, 
Young, and so fair ! 

Look at her garments 
Clinging like cerements, 



THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. 127 

Whilst the wave constantly 

Drips from her clothing ; 
Take her up instantly, 

Loving, not loathing. 

Touch her not scornfully ; 
Think of her mournfully, 

Gently, and humanly ; 
Not of the stains of her : 
All that remains of her, 

Now, is pure womanly. 

Make no deep scrutiny 
Into her mutiny, 

Rash and undutiful ; 
Past all dishonor, 
Death has left on her 

Only the beautiful. 

Still, for all slips of hers, — 

One of Eve's family, — 
Wipe those poor lips of hers, 

Oozing so clammily. 



128 THE WAIF. 

Loop up her tresses, 

Escaped from the comb, — 

Her fair auburn tresses ; 

Whilst wonderment guesses, 
Where was her home ? 

Who was her father ? 

Who was her mother ? 
Had she a sister ? 

Had she a brother ? 
Or, was there a dearer one 
Still, and a nearer one 

Yet, than all other ? 

Alas, for the rarity 
Of Christian charity 

Under the sun ! 
O, it was pitiful ! 
Near a whole city full, 

Home she had none. 

Sisterly, brotherly, 
Fatherly, motherly 



THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. 129 

Feelings had changed : 
Love, by harsh evidence, 
Thrown from its eminence ; 
Even God's providence 

Seeming estranged. 

Where the lamps quiver 
So far in the river, 

With many a light, 
From window and casement, 
From garret to basement, 
She stood, with amazement, 

Houseless, by night. 

The bleak wind of March 
Made her tremble and shiver ; 

But not the dark arch, 

Or the black flowing river : 

Mad from life's history, 

Glad to death's mystery, 
Swift to be hurled, — 

Anywhere, anywhere 

Out of the world ! 
9 



130 THE WAIF. 

In she plunged boldly, — 
No matter how coldly 

The rough river ran, — 
Over the brink of it : 
Picture it, think of it, 

Dissolute man ! 
Lave in it, drink of it, 

Then, if you can ! 

Take her up tenderly, 
Lift her with care : 

Fashioned so slenderly, 
Young, and so fair ! 

Ere her limbs frigidly 
Stiffen too rigidly, 

Decently, kindly, 
Smooth and compose them ; 
And her eyes, close them, 

Staring so blindly ! 

Dreadfully staring 

Through muddy impurity, 



THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. 131 

As when with the daring 
Last look of despairing 
Fixed on futurity. 

Perishing gloomily, 
Spurred by contumely, 
Cold inhumanity, 
Burning insanity, 

Into her rest ! 
Cross her hands humbly, 
As if praying dumbly, 

Over her breast ! 

Owning her weakness, 

Her evil behaviour ; 
And leaving, with meekness, 

Her sins to her Saviour ! 



132 



THE ANTIQUE SEPULCHRE. 



O ever- joyous band 
Of revellers amidst the southern vines ! 
On the pale marble, by some gifted hand, 

Fixed in undying lines ! 

Thou with the sculptured bowl, 
And thou, that wearest the immortal wreath, 
And thou, from whose young lip and flute the soul 

Of music seems to breathe ! 

And ye, luxuriant flowers, 
Linking the dancers with your graceful ties, 
And clustered fruitage, born of sunny hours 

Under Italian skies ! 



THE ANTIQUE SEPULCHRE. 133 

Ye, that a thousand springs, 
And leafy summers, with their odorous breath, 
May yet outlast ; what do ye there, bright things, 

Mantling the place of death ? 

Of sunlight, and soft air, 
And Dorian reeds, and myrtles ever green, 
Unto the heart a glowing thought ye bear; — 

Why thus, where dust hath been ? 

Is it to show how slight 
The bound that severs festivals and tombs, 
Music and silence, roses and the blight, 

Crowns and sepulchral glooms ? 

Or, when the father laid 
Happy his child's pale ashes here to sleep, 
When the friend visited the cypress shade, 

Flowers o'er the dead to heap ; 

Say if the mourners sought 
In these rich images of summer mirth, 



134 THE WAIF. 

These wine-cups and gay wreaths, to lose the thought 
Of our last hour on earth ? 

Ye have no voice, no sound, 
Ye flutes and lyres, to tell me what I seek ; 
Silent ye are, light forms with vine -leaves crowned ; 

Yet to my soul ye speak. 

Alas, for those that lay 
Down in the dust without their hope of old ! 
Backward they looked on life's rich banquet-day, 

But all beyond was cold. 

Every sweet wood-note, then, 
And through the plane-trees every sunbeam's glow, 
And each glad murmur from the homes of men, 

Made it more hard to go. 

But we, when life grows dim, 
When its last melodies float o'er our way, 
Its changeful hues before us faintly swim, 

Its flitting lights decay ; 



THE ANTIQUE SEPULCHRE. 135 

Even though we bid farewell 
Unto the spring's blue skies and budding trees, 
Yet may we lift our hearts, in hope to dwell 

'Midst brighter things than these ; 

And think of deathless flowers, 
And of bright streams to glorious valleys given ; 
And know, the while, how little dreams of ours 

Can shadow forth of heaven ! 



136 



ET EXALTAVIT HUMILES. 



How cheerfully the impartial sun 

Gilds with his beams 

The narrow streams 
O' th' brook which silently doth run 

Without a name ! 

And yet disdains to lend his flame 
To the wide channel of the Thames ! 

The largest mountains barren lie, 

And lightning fear, 

Though they appear 
To bid defiance to the sky ; 

Which in one hour 

We 've seen the opening earth devour, 
When in their height they proudest were. 



ET EXALTAVIT HUMILES. 137 

But the humble man heaves up his head, 

Like some rich vale 

Whose fruits ne'er fail, 
With flowers, with corn, and vines o'erspread ; 

Nor doth complain, 

O'erflowed by an ill-seasoned rain, 
Or battered by a storm of hail. 

Like a tall bark treasure-fraught, 

He the seas clear 

Doth quiet steer : 
But when they are to a tempest wrought, 

More gallantly 

He spreads his sail, and doth more high, 
By swelling of the waves, appear. 

For the Almighty joys to force 

The glorious tide 

Of human pride 
To the lowest ebb ; that o'er his course, 

Which rudely bore 

Down what opposed it heretofore, 
His feeblest enemy may stride. 



138 THE WAIF. 

But from his ill-thatched roof he brings 

The cottager, 

And doth prefer 
Him to the adored state of kings : 

He bids that hand, 

Which labor hath made rough and tanned, 
The all-commanding sceptre bear. 

Let, then, the mighty cease to boast 

Their boundless sway : 

Since in their sea 
Few sail, but by some storm are lost. 

Let them themselves 

Beware ; for they are their own shelves : 
Man still himself hath cast away. 



139 



LINES TO A WITHERED LEAF SEEN ON 
A POET'S TABLE. 



Poet's hand has placed thee there, 
Autumn's brown and withered scroll ! 

Though to outward eye not fair, 
Thou hast beauty for the soul. 

Though no human pen has traced 
On that leaf its learned lore, 

Love divine the page has graced, — 
What can words discover more ? 

Not alone dim Autumn's blast 
Echoes from yon tablet sere, — 

Distant music of the past 
Steals upon the poet's ear. 



140 THE WAIF. 

Voices sweet of summer hours, 
Spring's soft whispers murmur by ; 

Feathered songs from leafy bowers 
Draw his listening soul on high. 



141 



SONG FOR AUGUST. 



Beneath this starry arch, 

Naught resteth or is still ; 

But all things hold their march, 

As if by one great will. 

Moves one, move all ; 

Hark to the footfall ! 

On, on, for ever. 

Yon sheaves were once but seed : 
Will ripens into deed ; 
As cave-drops swell the streams, 
Day thoughts feed nightly dreams, 
And sorrow tracketh wrong, 
As echo follows song, — 
On, on, for ever. 



142 THE WA.IF. 

By night, like stars on high, 

The hours reveal their train ; 
They whisper and go by ; 
I never watch in vain. 
Moves one, move all ; 
Hark to the footfall ! 
On, on, for ever. 

They pass the cradle head, 
And there a promise shed ; 
They pass the moist new grave, 
And bid rank verdure wave ; 
They bear through every clime 
The harvests of all time, — 
On, on, for ever. 



143 



THE INDIAN BUKYING-GROUND. 



In spite of all the learned have said, 
I still my old opinion keep ; 

The posture that we give the dead 
Points out the soul's eternal sleep. 

Not so the ancients of these lands, — 
The Indian, when from life released, 

Again is seated with his friends, 
And shares again the joyous feast. 

His imaged birds, and painted bowl, 
And venison, for a journey dressed, 

Bespeak the nature of the soul, — 
Activity, that knows no rest. 



144 THE WAIF. 

His bow, for action ready bent, 
And arrows, with a head of stone, 

Can only mean that life is spent, 
And not the old ideas gone. 



By midnight moons, o'er moistening dews, 
In habit for the chase arrayed, 

The hunter still the deer pursues, — 
The hunter and the deer, a shade ! 

And long shall timorous Fancy see 
The painted chief and pointed spear ; 

And Reason's self shall bow the knee 
To shadows and delusions here. 



THE END. 









T r ccc < 

err > < 
or < < 

r err c « 
f c^ r <- t 



VcrV 




eccc 

cc 



Or 

Cr r 









-^<£ 



ryf 



Ct 



c 

c 



c 



<; 



son 



1 £ f ^ 



^ ! '' <*o 



^*»r~ . ^V 



, C<HKL 



•«Lli 



MT Ode 












